Love Song of N Parker Stokes
by WitchGirl
Summary: Alternative and WMTDB Title: "Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock and other Inane Ramblings" . Nick attempts to rid Greg of the latter’s disdain for poetry, but all Greg wants to do is sleep.Nick/Greg established fluffy goodness.


Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock and Other Inane Ramblings

**Summary:** Nick attempts to rid Greg of the latter's disdain for poetry, but all Greg wants to do is sleep.Nick/Greg established fluffy goodness.

**_Author's Note:_** This is what happens to an English major after she's read too much Eliot and Nick/Greg fan fiction in the space of an hour. A shout-out to LaughableBlackStorm for the beta.

* * *

I was exhausted from working a double and all I wanted to do was drag my feet over the threshold, crawl into bed, and snuggle up next to that warm, breathing pillow that I knew I could always find beneath the cotton sheets. I fumbled with the key, worthlessly. I was so tired that I missed the lock once or twice before finally managing to open my own front door. I moved like a reanimated corpse through the living room. Though I knew Nick would snap at me for it, I sluggishly draped my jacket on the couch and moved mindlessly down the hall to the bedroom we shared.

Even in my sleepy state, I was averse to waking Nick. I knew he would probably be out like a light, so I tried to be as quiet as humanly possible, but stealth is a difficult task when you feel like you're going to pass out on the floor. It seemed like every step I took, the floor had to creak beneath my feet, but still, you can't blame a guy for trying. Even the door squealed my arrival as I pushed it open. Expecting to walk into darkness, I was greeted instead with a flood of warm yellow light which nearly drowned me.

Blinking, allowing my surprised pupils to adjust, I closed the door behind me and cocked an eyebrow at my lover, who was sitting up in bed, leaning against pillows piled by the headboard. The bedside lamp was on, but the blackout curtains were closed, keeping out the afternoon light. He was fully engrossed in a small, black hardcover book with gilded pages. His reading glasses fit snugly on his nose, and he didn't even look up open my loud, creaky entrance.

I groaned, wearily, prepared to whine at him to turn off the light and come to bed. He looked up upon my sound of disapproval and a smirk possessed his features.

"Hey, G. How was the double?"

"Tiring," I mumbled, kicking off my shoes as I moved to the closet. I began unbuttoning my shirt as I looked at the bags under my eyes in the mirror. Nick said nothing more to me as I undressed methodically. At least, not until I slung my discarded shirt over the chair.

"Hamper, Greg," Nick muttered as he turned a page of his book.

I clenched my teeth, but said nothing as I seized my shirt and tossed it in the hamper. I stripped off my jeans, which felt too constricting for this hour and glared at Nick, who didn't look up at me, before tossing them on top of my shirt in the hamper. I stood in my boxers, and watched him a moment, waiting for his gaze to flicker my way, to take in my almost-nakedness. But when he didn't, I pursed my lips and tried to ignore it. Besides, I was far too lazy and slightly pissed at Nick to bother stripping naked, so I just climbed into the warm, soft bed, pulling the down comforter over my shivering shoulders, my back facing Nick in protest. My eyes fell closed, but the burning brightness of the lamp permeated through my lids, poking at my consciousness and forbidding me to sleep. I tossed and turned once or twice before spinning around beneath the sheets to face Nick, my eyes snapping open as I slapped the space between us.

"Would you turn off the light? I can't sleep with it on."

Nick turned a page. "Just got to the good part."

"Read it tomorrow, I'm tired."

His lips twitched, and I knew he was having more fun with this conversation than I was. "So hide your head beneath the pillow then."

I glared at him. "It's my bed."

"Which you invited me into, and as the guest, it's your job to make me comfortable."

"You consider yourself a _guest_?!" I grumbled.

His smile broadened. "Oh, I consider myself more than that, Greg."

I rolled my eyes. He thought he was being cute, but he didn't understand that all I wanted to do was fall asleep in his arms. I didn't want to play games, I didn't want to argue about the fucking light, I just wanted peaceful, restful slumber.

I pouted and he ignored me. I poked him to gain his attention, and his lips didn't move an inch. I readjusted my position and gave into him.

"What the hell are you reading, anyway?" _And why is it more interesting than me?_

Now, the smile returned, and he glanced at me out of the corner of his eyes from behind his glasses.

"Eliot," he explained.

"Never heard of it."

"That's not the title, he's the poet."

I blinked. "You're reading _poetry_?!" Now I was royally pissed. How dare poetry distract Nick from me!

He laughed. "_Yes_, I'm reading poetry," he replied.

"Poetry is just as tiring as working a double," I told him. "How come you aren't passed out yet?"

"I had a nap earlier, while you were working."

"Asshole," I muttered. I felt the urge to deliver a cheap shot. "And you look like a dork with glasses."

It must have sounded pretty pathetic because he snorted and closed the book, placing it in his lap as he looked at me. "What's the matter, Greg? Are you jealous of a poetry book?"

Yes. "No."

"Have you ever read Eliot?"

"Eliot who?" I inquired. He laughed again, making me feel stupid. I hated when he did that. "What? You know, I know things too. About more important things than poetry. Like enzymes and helicases and RNA."

Nick sighed, but his smile remained as he stared at me for the first time all evening behind his black-rimmed reading glasses. "Eliot is his last name, not his first. Thomas Stearns Eliot. I must admit, I'm a little bit surprised at your ignorance."

"Did you just call me ignorant?" I demanded, sitting up in bed.

"Well, about poetry, you apparently _are_ a little ignorant, Greg," Nick told me honestly. "Which, like I said, surprises me, considering I found this book on _your_ book shelf."

"Oh, you did?" And I felt the blush creep quietly into my cheeks. "I bought a bunch of books like that in a garage sale because I thought they'd look cool on my empty shelves."

"You thought you would impress people," Nick deduced, his smile turning rather playful.

"No, not really..." I squirmed under his gaze. I wasn't comfortable with this conversation. I wasn't comfortable with _any_ conversation, actually. "Nicky, I just want to go to sleep!"

He nodded, seeming to finally understand my plight, and for a moment, I actually thought he would turn out the light, wrap his brawny arms around me, kiss me on the forehead and apologize. Well, perhaps an apology was reaching a bit, but I did sincerely think that I'd won.

Until he picked up that stupid book again. "Let me read you a little something... Here's a good one. _Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock._"

"I've never heard of him either," I muttered indignantly.

"He's a character, now hush, let me read," said Nick.

"No, I _won't_ let you read!" I whined at last, my frustration getting the better of me. "Sleep, Nick! I want sleep!"

"You're tense," Nick observed, ever the master of the obvious. "I just want you to relax."

"_Sleep_ will help me relax!"

"No, if you go to sleep like this, you'll have restless dreams and end up waking me up," Nick said, matter-of-factly.

I exhaled sharply through my nose, trying hard not to grind my teeth into calcium powder. "And just _what_ do you think is the _root_ of that tension, Nick?"

"You'll like this, trust me," Nick assured me, but I resolutely chose not to believe him. Still, too exhausted to think of a rebuttal, I allowed him to begin. "Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table—"

"I wish _I_ was etherized on a table right now."

He continued, despite my interruption, but he couldn't contain his smile. As he spoke now, his hand moved across the space between us and crawled up my bare arm, his fingers prickling the surface of my skin until he reached my shoulder, which he gently massaged. This, I had to admit, was better than the poetry.

"Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreatsOf restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells..."

I closed my eyes, listening to that rugged, mellow southern drawl curl around the words, slowly allowing myself to fall into just the sound of it as I felt Nick's hand travel up my shoulder and behind my neck, his fingers kneading at the knots there.

"Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question..."

I wasn't sure how he worked me so well with just one hand, and without even looking at me. I moved nearer to him, draping my arm across his lap as his hand glided skillfully across my shoulders and neck, working out all the kinks I hadn't even realized was there. I leaned my head against his stomach, listening to the vibrations inside of him, the words slowly becoming a part of me.

"Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?' Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo."

Those two rhymes, for some odd reason, elicited a chuckle from me and I felt Nick shift under me. My eyes opened as a second hand descended upon my shoulders, moving down my back and around my chest, forcing me to sit up in the bed as Nick's hands slithered over my skin, which was tingling now from the feel of him. I felt his moist breath against my eager ear.

"The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes," he breathed, his hands pulling me closer towards him, my back against his chest. "The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes." He gently nuzzled the side of my neck, his eyelashes tickling my skin and I trembled. "Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening," he continued, his own tongue slipping between his lips and brushing against the skin of my shoulder. His lips gently closed, planting delicate, quiet kisses of my neck and jaw line until he was back to my ear and I was breathless. He nibbled lightly on the top of it, his breath washing over the wet skin and I couldn't suppress a quiet groan. "Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains." His hands traveled down my sides, gripping my hips above the hem of my boxers. "Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys." His teeth gently sank into my shoulder and I let out a satisfied sigh. "Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap..."

One hand moved up my side again, catching me just beneath my arm as the other pushed me to lie down and I let him, putty in his hands. He placed me on my stomach and I buried my face in the pillow. His thumbs worked out whatever knots were left in my back, his fingers kneading skin and rapidly relaxing muscle, and everything I was fell apart beneath his skillful hands.

"And seeing that it was a soft October night..." He leaned down, his hands still roaming my back, and I was lost to everything but his touch and the hum of his deep, Texan voice. He ran a hand through my hair and kissed the back of my neck. I felt the bed move beside me, and his arms wrapped around me. I turned instinctively towards him, returning the embrace, and felt his lips against my ear.

"Curled once about the house, and fell asleep."

Warmth encompassed me, my whole body free of stress as I lied there, liquefied by his touch. He began lightly stroking my hair, the other arm holding me securely close to him. I was half asleep, but awake enough to understand that he had stopped talking. I mumbled into his chest.

"That the end of it?"

"Hardly," Nick whispered. "I just forget the rest of it."

"Forget...?" I mumbled sleepily. A dull realization exploded in the back of my mind, but I was too far-gone to recognize it. I realized that in order to do all of those wonderfully relaxing things he did to me, he would have had to recite the poem from memory. I would ask him to finish the poem when I was more awake, and wondered vaguely if maybe I could learn a thing or two from Eliot about eroticism.

"He must have been a dog..." I muttered.

"Who?" Nick asked quietly.

"Eliot," I explained. "All that poetry... he must have been getting laid nightly."

Nick lowered his lips into my hair and I felt his lips curl against my scalp. "I told you that you'd like it."

A part of me remained slightly indignant, but the majority was too tired to care. "You win," I conceded.

I felt him laugh beside me. "And you're my prize."

And seconds later, I faded away, into a deep, still slumber and woke up hours later, still in his arms. Apparently, I hadn't budged an inch all night.


End file.
